Wicked Ones
by RoswellSmokingWoman
Summary: House, is, well, House. He can be an ass. He thinks he can read people from cover to cover like they're simple children's books. Upon meeting you, he thinks he knows what you are. But, does he know what's in store for him when he makes you a member of his team? House x Reader
1. Chapter 1

i

You were friends with Cuddy, and being friends with Cuddy meant that one single event would inevitably occur at some point in your life. That one thing would drive you to the brink of insanity. That one thing would change your life; it would irrevocably alter it. It would grab a hold of you, and swiftly, in mere seconds, it would take all you have ever known into its hands and crush it to dust. But above all, it would suck you in with the force of a thousand suns, and not even the greater forces, if there was such a thing, knew what would happen after that.

But the worst part of it all is that that thing had a name. And that name you could never forget, not after that day, and not because it was a common name or simple to remember. Oh no. It was just too difficult to forget that monosyllable that rang so vilely in your ears.

House.

* * *

It was a late winter evening, and the night was as bitter cold as your disposition. It was difficult to manage a smile, much less speak to a single human being and manage a pleasing tone of voice. Cuddy looked at you, for the first time you had ever known her, with pity in her large, reflective eyes. She put her hand on your shoulder but you pushed it off, holding back the tear that so desperately yearned to run free.

"You don't want him back, do you?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"I don't know. No. Maybe. He visited me at the clinic yesterday. He abused medication to fake flu-like symptoms to have an excuse to see me there. No matter how pitiful an action it was, no matter how much I wanted to hate him… Cuddy, I couldn't. And it occurred to me that I miss him. That's what scares me the most. I don't want to miss him." You worked at a hospital a several miles away from Princeton Plainsboro, and you ex-boyfriend (who was also a doctor) had abused medication on his job in an attempt to win you back while you examined him.

"What he did to you was terrible, (Name). Trying to win you back was even worse. He must affect your ability to perform your duties as a doctor properly."

"What are you getting at, Lisa?"

"Princeton Plainsboro is hiring. You are an exceptional doctor. We could use someone like you. And, as your friend, I think it would be the best for you to get away from him. Coming here would be a simple answer. I can make the transition easy for you."

You nodded, biting your lip. You know it is a good option for you, but leaving your job behind at the other hospital would be difficult emotionally. "Give me time to think it over, alright?"  
"As much as you need. In the meantime, go home and relax. I hate seeing you like this."

"Thanks for taking time out of your day. I needed to talk to someone, and—"

"Don't sweat it. I'll always be here for you. I love you like a sister."

"You know, if you take out the 'like a sister' part, I would have paid a lot of money to see you two going at it on Cuddy's desk. Actually, I still would." And those were the first words you had ever heard Gregory House speak. He hobbled into the room, his hand tightly gripping his cane. "She needs a job; I need someone new on my team. I'll take her. She starts next week."

"You don't know a single thing about her," Cuddy snapped, not giving you a chance to speak.

House looked you up and down, studying you carefully Finally, his blue eyes met your (eye color) eyes. "Don't need to. She and I will fight every day, and she'll piss me off to no end. I'll hate her more than I hate most other people. Hell, I'm sure she'll slap me a couple of times for being an ass. But she's a good doctor, and I don't need her credentials to tell me that. The fact that she is not only your 'friend' but a doctor whom you respect is enough for me to determine how competent she is."

"And what department would I be working in?" You fold your arms in front of your chest. You've never felt more annoyed in your entire life.

"Diagnostics. Job requirements are: short skirt, thong or no underwear and a low-cut shirt. Oh, I forgot to say that you'll attempt to sue me for sexual harassment at some point, but we'll get passed that."

"Oh, that's rich. You're an insufferable asshole who thinks he can get away with all kinds of shit just because he's a cripple. Do you want my sympathy to take precedence over my better judgement and to let myself jump off of a cliff? 'Cause I'm sure that what's at the bottom won't kill me, but it'll leave me wishing I had died. So no, Mr. Douchebag, I will not work in your department. And, I'm sorry Cuddy, I won't be able to work in a hospital that employs this—"

"First, metaphors are my thing. Second, you are the bi—"

"That's enough, both of you." Cuddy sighed, collapsing into the chair behind her desk and putting her hand on her throbbing forehead. "And House, you could have at least introduced yourself properly before making an ass of yourself in front of (Name)."

"No, it's fine. I actually like the fact that he didn't introduce himself. I'll just use asshole in place of his name," you quipped. Your voice was jagged and cold like cracked ice.

House only looked at you, intrigue glimmering in his eyes. His face however remained in a stagnant scowl that you think looks unflattering on him. You took time to observe him as Cuddy spoke. Perhaps you would have thought him to be attractive had his personality been more appealing, but alas, you had found him completely revolting the moment words began to spill from his thin lips. As you watched him you were almost taken aback when he took the slightest step toward you and let a smirk play on his lips for a split second. You gulped, knowing that you were facing what feels like an adversary. He was amused by you and your anger. How dare he?

"Cuddy, that's enough. (Name), look, I apologize. Well, not really, as I'm only doing this because Cuddy wants me to, but either way you'll want to come and work for me sooner or later. Though, I would prefer you accept this offer now because, well, I'm not one for wasting time on trivial things like stupidity."

"Fine! I accept! I hope you regret hiring me, because I will make your life hell." Cuddy looks at you, her brows furrowed. She had never seen you tick before, not like this, but House made you tick, and she didn't know whether that was a good or a bad thing.

"I look forward to hell," House said firmly.

You looked at the clock and noticed the time. "Lisa, I've got to get headed home. Fax me the paperwork and I'll get it to you as soon as possible. Thanks again for listening."

Once you exit, Cuddy turns to House and raises an eyebrow to him. "Are you sure you can handle her, House? And do you really need her in your department. She's a phenomenal immunologist, and perhaps it would be best for her to work in immunology. Because the way I see it, you've started a war by offering her a position on your team."

House chuckles, "I do need her, Cuddy. And why don't you look at it this way: She's your friend and as your friend she can keep an eye on me. You know, keep me from getting the hospital in a messy lawsuit."

She sighs, staring at her desk. "Very well, but if you so much as—"

"It's not like I'll beat her with my cane. Okay, well, not too hard. See you later, Cuddy."

"Wait! House, why did you come to my office in the first place?"

"I need to be a nuisance to you at least once a day. It's in my job description." The door closes behind House as he hobbles off.

* * *

A/N: This is the first character/reader I've ever written. Is it any good? I noticed that there aren't very many of House/Reader and decided it was about time that I wrote something. Leave a review and tell me what you think. I'll continue writing this if there is enough interest in it.

This is the song I thought of when I wrote this chapter: Hozier - Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene: www. youtube watch?v=sXAzwjci-40


	2. Chapter 2

ii

Your alarm clock rang shrilly that morning. You rolled out of your bed, landing straight on your ass against the floor of your bedroom. You groaned when you realized that it would be your first day working with Dr. Gregory House. It had never occurred to you that there was a small, nearly nonexistent—but nevertheless there—part of you that was absolutely thrilled at the idea of working with him. Your heart skip a beat, but you thought nothing of it, chocking it off to how nervous you felt about working at Princeton Plainsboro.

* * *

"The patient is in her mid-thirties. She is a hemophiliac that has symptoms of joint pain, fatigue, other boring flu-like symptoms and most importantly, this morning after she passed out in exam room three—sepsis. Differential diagnosis: Go!" House was fast paced and didn't like to waste time when it concerned a patient's life.

"It could be a number of things," you started, "Any infection. We have to get a full panel done. The hemophilia shouldn't be a problem if we're careful. We'll stop the bleeding immediately after we're done."

"I didn't hire you to state the obvious. You know the symptoms. I don't want to keep her bleeding longer than we have to. Narrow it down to the infections it most likely is."

"Staphylococcus bacteria are the most common cause of sepsis," Cameron piped in.

"But it could be any number of things. We need to get a history of the patient. Has she traveled in the past year? It could be malaria. Hell, maybe it's even lupus." Foreman interjected.

"Her history doesn't matter, everybody lies. She could tell you one thing that will lead you in the wrong direction, and before we know it, she'll go into septic shock because we listened to her." you said warily.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman looked from you to House, and then back to you. They were dumbfounded by the simple fact that you had said those words, "Well, what is it?" You were annoyed by their foolish behavior and you felt like you were ready to snap.

"Everybody lies is my line."

"Bullshit it your line, _House_."

Chase gave a look to Cameron and Foreman that said, "House has met his match."

He ignored your comment completely. "Chase and Foreman, you inspect her apartment for anything that could have caused an infection and get back to me as fast as possible. Cameron, you deal with questioning the patient. (Last name) stay here." You were about to say something about the fact that breaking and entering was a felon, but decided against it. Nothing about House was morally correct, so why would you lecture him on the legality of what he was asking of Foreman and Chase?

Cameron, the chirpy brunette who gave off the impression that she was a sickening people-pleaser with the penchant for running after poor, injured souls, opened her mouth to speak, but then quickly closed it; she changed her mind after have her a look that said, "If you speak, you're fired". Foreman sighed and then looked to Chase.

"No point in arguing with him, eh?" But you could tell that despite the fact that he was facing Chase, Foreman had directed the comment to you.

"Alright, let's head out."

After the three left, you and House were left in the room alone, facing each other.

"Why did you hire me if you can't stand me?" Your demeanor was rigid.

"Why did you accept the job offer if you would rather die than work for me?" House questioned, gripping his cane tightly. "And why are you working for me if you're going to be just as dense as the other three? I mean, really, I expected so much more of you." He was testing you, you knew this. He wanted to get under your skin and see if you'll scratch the spot he made itch so badly. But you wouldn't succumb to him. Oh no, you were better than that.

"Answering my question with another question is fruitless."

House limped over to you, leaving his cane to lean against the table. He stood behind you; you felt his hot breath rolling against the back of your neck. Your shoulder twitched in response from the nonsensical potpourri of feelings which assaulted you the moment he took yet another step closer to you. There was a warmth that spread in your belly and it made your stomach coil.

"I know your type," he seethed. "You act like you don't give a damn because you're tired of acting like you do. In medical school you were a kiss-ass, but you were a genius. Your peers cheated off of you, and you took pity on their stupidity and let them. But then you learned that it was more fun to not give a damn about the others and be on your way. At the other hospital, you learned to compartmentalize so that you wouldn't have to give a damn about a patient's tears. You've taken the humanity out of being a doctor. It's just a job to you now—one that you must see to completion no matter what. You understand that a patient's tears don't matter when their life is at stake. That's why I hired you.

"But, that doesn't change the fact that I know your type. You act like you don't give a damn when you do. You pity too easily, but hide it. I know how to make you tick, how to drive you insane. And, I will," he laughs a sick little laugh that makes you want to vomit, "But, you'll learn to love playing this little game."

"Why don't you go to where you belong? I'm sure a white-padded room would be a wonderful home for you, you sick, twisted FREAK!" Your heart had panged painfully at his words and that is what had caused you to speak so violently. "But, I know your type too." Your voice grew cold, "You're so damaged that nothing can fix you. And it's not the fact that you've been crippled. No, you've been like this your entire life. You've been lonely and miserable for decades now, but why wouldn't you be? You've ostracized yourself from society because you can't stand that everyone else can be happy in the delusions they've created for themselves. Instead of allowing yourself happiness, you live off of ruining everyone else's. You feed off of anger and despair. But, I'm sorry to say that that won't take you anywhere but on a downwards spiral straight to hell. And that's not only what I believe, but what you believe. You know that you're going to be a miserable old man for the rest of your life, and you've accepted it."

"Now, now, don't be upset. And there's no need to lash out on me. I was only telling you the truth. Now, get a hold of yourself woman. I want you to schedule a chest MRI for the patient and then bring me a Rueben with no pickles."

"Rueben with extra pickles—got it." You quickly trudged out of the room, steam coming out of your ears. Never had you been more wound-up in your life.

* * *

House fell into a chair, watching you leave. He sighed deeply when the door closed behind you. "Why can't I stand her?" he asked himself, "What is it that I hate about her?" He leaned his chin against his cane and scanned the floor with his eyes as if the floor would contain the answer he was searching for. How you had read him, the way your words had caught his chest made his leg throb in unbearable pain. He had wanted to take you off your high horse when you had spoken, but something had stopped him. The truth in your words, how sharp and unrestrained it was—it kept him from kicking you out of his office.

"Well, she has a nice ass, at least," he concluded before he stood up, determined to stop you from ordering pickles on an otherwise perfectly good sandwich.

He dialed Cuddy's number on the phone. "Cuddy, it's a tragedy!"

"Oh, for the love. Whatever she's done to upset you, get over it, grow a pair and treat your goddamned patient."

"She told me you wore the orange thong today. Orange really isn't your color, Cuddy. I demand that you remove them from your nether regions at once." The fact was, House took a sort of sadistic pleasure in toying with people. Cuddy was no exception.

"She's getting pickles on your sandwich, isn't she?"

"Glad we're on the same page."

"I'm not stopping her." Cuddy signed into the phone and House could hear her strumming her fingers loudly against her desk.

"And I'm not going to spread the rumor that you slept with her, Cuddy."

She hung up on House, but House knew all too well that Cuddy had given in.

* * *

A/N: This is the song that I listened to while I wrote this: The Civil Wars—Dust to Dust: www. youtube watch?v=yJbmXvBJhCs


	3. Chapter 3

iii

You ran to House's office as fast as your legs could carry you, for the excitement which coursed through your veins was far too much for you to simply walk to him. The patient had lied, as you had expected, about the most important thing she had done in the past year. You nearly tripped over your own feet when you finally entered his office, thoroughly coated in sweat and panting heavily.

"Are you running from the zombies?" House questioned you jokingly.

Cameron rushed toward you, grabbed your hand and guided you to a chair. The thing about Cameron was that she was so goddamned caring. "Are you alright?" She asked you with her worry-saturated voice. You nodded to answer her question. Foreman handed Cameron a cup of water which she then handed to you.

"I'm fine. House." His name from your lips was clipped. "She went to Africa three months ago and had stayed there for a month."

"Malaria," Chase sputtered automatically. "It fits. Untreated malaria could account for all of her symptoms."

"Great, treat her with an artemisinin, amodiaquine and lumefantrine. She should show some improvement, and if she does in fact have malaria, we'll send her on her way. (Name) you're coming with me."

You followed House, leaving Cameron, Chase and Foreman to attend the 26-year-old patient, Elizabeth Cummings.

"And where are we going exactly?" You hated going on these goose chases with House. You had gone on one earlier in the week, and to put it nicely, it was not your cup of tea. He had deemed that Chase and Foreman had failed in trying to find something in the patient's apartment. He had berated you while you two broke into it.

"We are going to find Ms. Cummings's bag which you threw away last night. And since I can climb into a dumpster on account of my leg, you'll be doing the dirty work while I stand watch."

"And if I refuse?"

House stared at you, completely appalled that you had refused not his request, but his demand. "Oh come on, I'm sure you'll find a bit of cheeseburger for yourself while you're in there."

You stopped in the hallway and stared at him for a moment before you burst into a fit of laughter. You wiped away the few tears from the laughter which clouded your vision. "I've been working for you for less than a week, and I've committed more crimes than I have in the entirety of my life, I've verbally degraded a patient so that she would give me information, and now I'm going to go dumpster diving? I'm sorry, but I can't. It's just too much. You'll have my letter of resignation on your desk in the morning."

"Well, while you are still working for me, why don't you move those long legs and help me find the real disease this patient has, because it's not malaria. If it was malaria, we would have found the parasites in her body in one of the tests."

"We were not looking for malaria, so arguably, we wouldn't have!" you yelled after House as he continued to walk on. You huffed and proceeded to follow him. No matter how unwilling you were, some force which you could not name had possessed you to follow him, even if it meant that you would spend your evening in the dumpster.

What you did not see was the smirk that had spread across House's face when he had heard your footsteps following after him.

* * *

"I want new clothes after this," you told him when you threw a glass bottle out of the dumpster.

"Yeah, yeah, just keep on searching." After a few minutes passed, you heart him begin to hum a somber tune. His gravelly voice and the weight of the notes hit your heart. Had your hands been clean, you would have wiped the few stray tears that had run from your eyes.

"Why did you begin treatment on her if you don't think that she has malaria?" You asked, remembering the words House had spoken earlier.

"It's not that I don't think she had or has malaria, it's that I think she was already being treated for it. Why she neglected to tell us—other than she is an imbecile—is beyond me."

"I think I found it, House. You better be good at catching." You threw the bag out of the dumpster and heard a grunt from House. "Oh, sorry, did it hit you?"

"Yes!" He hissed.

"In that case, I'm not sorry. Now, help me out of this damned dumpster!" You cautiously climbed out of the dumpster, checking to see whether or not House had left you after you had thrown the bag out. To your surprise, he still stood there, watching you attentively as you swung a leg over the dumpster.

"I'm not sure how you expect a cripple to be able to help you." Despite these words, he offered you his hand.

"I'll board the pity-train for you later." You stumbled over the edge of the dumpster and fell out, falling on top of House.

"Clumsy and nearly useless. Remind me again why I hired you?"

"Because of my fine ass."

The sight of House's eyes shimmering in the moonlight caught you off-guard. They were a vibrant blue and perfectly reflected the moonlight, like a placid sea in mid-summer. Your hands were on top of House's chest and you felt heat tickle your fingertips. When you attempted to speak, you found yourself unable to.

House placed his hands at the sides of your arms. He was quite unsure of why he was doing that in the first place, other than a distinct tightness in his pants had formed as a result of you falling on top of him. He stared at your soft, pliant lips for a moment before his gaze shifted to your (eye color) eyes. His heartbeat quickened and his breath hitched. His mind told him to move his hands lower, to feel the curves of your body, but he found himself frozen beneath you. It was in this moment that he had completely forgotten the pain in his leg which he had felt only moment ago.

"You really do stink," he finally said.

"You're the one who made me go dumpster diving." You couldn't find it in yourself to move, and he couldn't find it in himself to push you off. He find your presence more powerful than the stink of garbage on your skin, and he wasn't quite sure whether or not he was fond of you being on top of him like you were.

"Get off me before I do something I'll regret later," he told you, his voice dangerously low.

You could only nod.

"Stop the treatment!" House yelled once you two reached the room.

"We only started an hour ago," Foreman yelled in protest.

"Yeah, you're right. Continue the treatment. It'll be good for her. It builds character."

"Fine, fine, Cameron—"

"I was only kidding. She actually does have malaria. But she also has lupus," House finally said. "(Name) the bag."

You noticed Foreman's nostrils flare in disgust.

"She's been dumpster diving, and yes, she needs to shower," House said blatantly. He pulled an orange bottle out of Elizabeth Webber's bag. "Quinidine, which can rarely cause drug-induced lupus erythematosus. That is the condition which ultimately brought her to the hospital, not the malaria."

Elizabeth woke up from her nap then, and looked up at Dr. House, who she had never before seen and stared at him dumbfoundedly. "So, if I had told you about Africa earlier—" she began.

"I wouldn't think you are as big of an idiot, but you are, and I was right. Now, go back to sleep. You'll be fine in a few weeks. Just don't take any more quinidine."

House was an ass. He was brutally honest, and his words stung like the vilest poison. But, House was brilliant, and you couldn't help but admire him for his brilliance, if nothing else.

"So, (Name), I want that letter of resignation at eight o'clock sharp." He began to leave, but you stopped him, placing your hand on top of his own.

"I don't think I'll be getting to writing that letter of resignation," you told him, looking at him, hoping that he would look at you too. You felt his hand shake lightly underneath yours.

"It doesn't matter to me either way." He pushed your hand off and walked out of the room, leaving you confused and slightly hurt.

House was an ass. He would always be an ass—a cold, miserable ass.

* * *

"Fuck," House swore underneath his breath as he stared at a spot on the wall. He leaned back in his chair, squeezing an over-sized blue and red tennis ball in his hand. He finally threw it and watched it ricochet against the bookshelf.

He thought back to you, your body on top of his and the curve of your breasts teasing his chest. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What would he do? He knew himself too well. And knowing himself, he knew that it wouldn't be long before he would have you on his desk, naked and coated in sweat, begging for him to fuck you.

He banged his head against his cane, once, twice. Then, he heard his door open. Wilson stood there, watching House.

"I've never seen you like this." Wilson said, "Are you in pain, or maybe sick?"

"I'm sick. The virus which has infected me has a name. And it's (Name)."

"Oh, House. You know, you shouldn't—"

"I know, Wilson. But shouldn't doesn't mean that I won't."

"I can't help you."

"I'm not asking for help."

"Then don't come looking for me when you realize that you've—"

"That's enough. Go back to comforting and pulling happiness out of your ass."

* * *

A/N: This is the song I listened to while I wrote this: Norah Jones—Turn Me On: www. youtube watch?v=ED1B39W9b0E

Oh, and I didn't edit this chapter. I'm sick. That's a good enough excuse, right?


	4. Chapter 4

iv

The Vicodin. It had taken you time to notice his habit, but when you had you could never not notice it. He popped Vicodin into that mouth of his like they were trivial little tic-tacs, sweet and addictive. And you wondered, at first, whether his drug addiction compromised his ability to work. But then it occurred to you: It took his pain away—and it wasn't the type of pain that physical therapy and mild pain medication could take care of. This pain was a blackened mass stuck forever in the frontal lobes, haunting him like vengeful spirits that would strike when he is at his weakest. The Vicodin would numb him, but over time, as with all addictions, a few pills would never be enough. And so, House sat on a throne of empty Vicodin bottles, filled with heavy memories.

You did not pity him for this, nor were you disgusted by his addiction, his weakness. Like he had said, his voice deep and cruel, "You don't give a damn." If House wanted to drown on his own bile and die from overdose, so be it. It was his life and his pain. The way you saw, as long as you didn't give a damn, you would keep this job as long as you still wanted it.

* * *

He popped a pill into his mouth with his morning coffee, black. "No case today, I might as well make you four do my paperwork."

You mentally groaned when Cameron passed you a fourth of the rather large stack of files on the table. "We just have to deal with it, (name). None of us like it, but it's just something we have to do in order to keep working with House. I know he can be a bit—"

"You two schoolgirls in the corner, stop gossiping or I'll have to bend you two both over my desk and… Well, if I tell you, then that would ruin the surprise."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll shut up. You go and get off to the pictures on that file on your computer titles 'Patient Record Circa 2001'. I quite like the one of you and Wilson spooning," you shot back.

Foreman, who is normally composed, nearly choked on his coffee from your comment. He stifled the remainder of his laughter with his hand, embarrassed by his outburst. House didn't comment on Foreman's outburst, for Foreman's embarrassment gave House an odd sense of satisfaction.

Instead, House directed his next comment to you. "For that, (name), you can go to the clinic and take my clinic hours for the week."

You side and proceeded to go to the clinic.

* * *

You nearly threw the container of depressors at the door when one managed to get stuck to your hand. Whatever House had coated them in—and yes, you were sure without a doubt that this was House's doing—the substance was not quite adhesive, but it stuck to your hands no matter how much you washed them. You threw out the tongue depressors and replaced them. Trying one last time to wash the sappy substance off of your hands, you sighed. This was useless. You opted to put on a pair of gloves and change them after each patient you saw.

The nurse at the desk looked at you questioningly when she saw you wearing gloves. "Was it House?" she asked immediately, all too aware of his tendency to play prank as if her were so small, undisciplined child.

"Of course it was House. It's always House. So, next patient?"

She handed you the file. You started to turn around, and noticed in the corner of your eye the nurse had opened her mouth to say something to you. Had you known that it was a warning, you would never have turned around in the first place.

Water spilled all over your white blouse, your bra now visible beneath your shirt. House stood behind you, his mouth agape at the sight before him. "With those, you could've gotten a job at Hooters without saying a word at your interview." He snickered after his comment, and you knew then that the water spilling over you was no accident.

"You are a child!" You yelled, unable to contain your anger. Working for House for the past few weeks, crazy demand after craze demand, and infernal prank after infernal prank, you no longer had the patience to deal with House. "You torture me day after day, taunt me and sexually harass me. You asked me to work for you. There was no interview. You didn't even quite ask me, you demanded that I work for you. For fuck's sake, treat me with a semblance of respect otherwise I will leave, and as far as I can tell you don't want me to quit. Otherwise this time I have spent working for you would have been for nothing."

House turned away from you, and walked away, smirking. He popped two pills of Vicodin in his mouth, throwing them in the air and opening his mouth wide for them to fall into. He was intrigued by you, your boldness. He wondered when he would push you again, testing your limits. This was a fun game, but he didn't know you well. He thought he knew you, but at the same time, he felt that there was a surprise within you waiting for him to uncover. Perhaps he couldn't play games with you for much longer.

He recalled the memory of your soaked blouse, you breathing heavily from anger. He licked his lips when he recalled the sight of your bra visible beneath your shirt. Your chest moved up and down with every breath you took. You had done him a favor by reacting the way you had, completely livid. He found you attractive when you were furious, so much so that his he found his pants tightening against his member.

* * *

After changing into a pair of extra scrubs the hospital had lying around, you returned to complete House's clinic hours. And while you didn't want to complete his clinic hours for him, you didn't want to face him until you calmed down. Half an hour had passed since the incident, and still you were livid.

You heard the door open, and you panicked for a moment, thinking that a patient had entered the exam room and you wouldn't have their file. You turned to apologize to the patient, but were pleasantly surprise when you saw Cuddy standing before you.

"I understand completely if you want to quit or have me place you in a different department. Had I known that House was treating you so disrespectfully and unprofessionally—"

"House treats everyone the way he treats me."

"I'd say perhaps a little worse."

You grimaced, "Glad to know that I'm special."

"I'm sorry. But really, if you want—"

"No. Really, I wish that I could take your offer, and I would in a heartbeat if I could. But, House has challenged me, and I must take this challenge."

"You're only giving him the satisfaction by continuing to play his games."

You sighed. "I'm doing his clinic hours right now, Cuddy. I know I'm playing his games. I don't care. He'll get bored of playing with me one day."

She nodded, "Here's your next patient's file. But please, (Name) tell me immediately if and when House crosses the line," genuine concern was on her face. She was worried for you, not as a colleague, but as a friend.

* * *

You were seeing your last patient of the day, a man in his early thirties who had a mild fever and a raspy cough. You were relieved that your work day was nearly over, looking forward to going home, changing into your pajamas and watching a movie with a glass of Bordeaux.

"Hello, I'm Dr. (Last Name). How are you today?"

"I'm fine, well, for the most part. I woke up with a fever this morning and have had this nasty cough for—" he coughed into his sleeve "the past few days."

You nodded, taking a tongue depressor out of the container. "Have you gotten a flu shot this year?" you asked when you looked into the patient's throat.

"No, I, uh, didn't think it was worth it when it only protects you from so few flues out of so many."

"Well, unfortunately, you've contracted the flu. Maybe next year you'll get the shot. Make sure to stay hydrated and to get plenty of rest. You should be feeling better within a week."

"Alright, thank you."

You smiled at him.

"You look beautiful when you smile. Oh, that's probably crossing the line."

"No, it's fine."

"Well, in that case, would you mind giving me your number?" He was hopeful, and you found it cute, but you were not interested in him.

"GET OUT!" you heard House yell, the door slamming open. When he had seen you with the male patient after opening the door a smidgen, he had spied on you. After seeing the man blatantly flirt with you, he felt a fire rage in his veins. He could not allow this other man to try catch you like you were some fish.

"What the hell are you doing in here? And how long have you been watching me?"

"Irrelevant. This man needs to get out or I will have him escorted by hospital security."

"Relax, buddy. Is she your girlfriend or something? I'm sorry if I crossed the line, I didn't know. I'll just get going. Thank you, Dr. (Last Name), goodbye."

House moved his cane to trip the man on his way out, but you glared at him, ultimately causing him to move his cane back. The door clicked shut, and when it did, you felt ready to throw punches at House.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Cuddy had told me to come here and apologize."

"I don't care. Answer my question. You ruin a thousand tongue depressors just to play a prank on me, you spill water all over me to see my bra underneath my shirt and then this—this—I don't even know what that was? What the hell is wrong with you, House!?"

"I was protecting you from some mentally inferior wacko ready to marry any woman who's willing to stick a tongue depressor in his mouth! Oh, that sounded worse than I thought it would, let me try again. I was trying to stop you from making an idiotic decision and giving your number to someone you don't know."

You smirked and then laughed. "You were jealous." Saying the words only made you laugh even more.

"I was not jealous. You are completely misinterpreting my actions which only proves that you're more of an idiot than I initially thought you were."

You walked toward him, staring into his eyes. You placed your hands on his chest and leaned your lips into his ear, "Methink he doth protest too much." Strangely, you found yourself not wanting to leave this position. Your lips move closer to his ear, and then down to the crook of his neck. You hadn't intended to, but you had smelled him—clean, like fresh linens, but also musky, the scent of alcohol only there to tease your senses. For a moment, your vision blurred; you were completely intoxicated by his scent. Your breath hitched when House placed a hand on your ass.

"Large, yet supple," he whispered back into your ear.

You pushed him back and watched him fall against the wall. "You're an ass." You ran out of that exam room as fast as you could, your heart racing. "What the hell was that?" you asked yourself.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I'm still sick, so this is unedited as well. Next chapter I promise will be edited.

Song I listened to while writing: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds—O Children: www. youtube watch?v=S3RhOU8dH2o


	5. Chapter 5

v

It had been quite astounding, when you had finally realized it, that you had completely forgotten about your ex-boyfriend. It seemed that almost the moment you had met House, you had forgotten him completely. It was like memories of House had replaced your memories of John; or rather memories of House had taken precedence over your memories of John. Perhaps it was because House was that infuriating, but a small voice inside of you piped in, telling you it was because of the way House made your heart race and your senses go wild. No matter. When it came down to it, you had forgotten John.

Until there came a day when he came crashing into your life once more like a wrecking ball ready to destroy the walls you had carefully built to harbor everything you held dear. Even then, House couldn't help you forget. Because, damn him, he had to make you remember.

* * *

House came in through the door late, as per usual. His greyish-brown hair was a mess and, as always, he had been unshaven. He opted to wear a suit-jacket over a t-shirt that day, and it looked as if he had almost literally tossed on his clothes that morning. "The patient, male, 37 years old, came in disoriented last night. Ten minutes later he seized, and since then has been seizing approximately every four hours. Differential diagnosis, go." House looked as if he was aggravated by this case, and you couldn't tell why. Perhaps he thought it would be easy to solve, and therefore not worthy of him. He readied his marker to write upon the board.

"It could just be epilepsy, House," Foreman began warily. "We need to do an EEG to confirm epilepsy."

"If it is epilepsy, we need to do both an MRI and CT for encephalitis and tuberous sclerosis respectively," you said.

"It could be a number of cancers," Chase argued, "The single symptom doesn't pin-point anything."

"You're right, we just have to wait until more symptoms appear, and because you were a good Catholic schoolboy, I'll say that they'll appear because of some God-given miracle to help us solve this case," House spoke sardonically, "In the meantime, do the EEG and when it confirms epilepsy, do the MRI, CT and do the bloodwork and look for every cancer you can think of that could cause epilepsy."

House handed you the file, not looking you in the eyes. You remembered that day in the clinic, your body so near to his, your lips nearly brushing against his ear… You worried for a moment that the lack of eye-contact was because House hadn't forgotten that encounter. But then you thought you were being idiotic. House reveled in messing with you; so, you finally decide that House was doing just that—messing with you. You took the file, and went on your way, Cameron, Foreman and Chase following you.

You opened the file in the hall, and stopped walking, the three who were once behind you now in front of you. You felt dizzy, looking at the name of the patient in the file. It's in that moment that your heart had broken and you felt a hurricane of emotions that you had pushed aside for so long assault you brutally and without warning. You didn't know how you had gotten there, or why you were there, but you lay on the floor, your legs sprawled out. Your vision is blurred and all you could see in the fuzziness of it all was his name in glowing neon lights, almost blinding you. John Weitz. John Weitz—your ex-boyfriend who you had nearly forgotten had ever existed. It had been too good to be true to have forgotten him, and so you were there, sprawled on the floor, torn to shreds because of someone who you shouldn't have ever cared about in the first place.

Cameron, with worry pooled in her eyes, ran toward you, shouting your name. "(Name)! Are you alright?" She helped you sit up.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Take the file and do what House said. I have to go sit down for a while."

"If you're sick, you better go home," said Cameron as she took the file. "I hope it's nothing."

Normally you wouldn't have liked the saccharine niceness that permeated from her, but now you were thankful for it. The thing about her niceness is that it had made her naïve enough to believe your words and leave you to rest without question. You stood on your own, your feet wobbling. "Thank you, Cameron." You knew she was smiling back at you, but you hadn't seen it as you were already searching for some place to sit, to hide, until you could get a hold of yourself.

* * *

When House had found you hiding in the locker-room, he had nearly blown a gasket. But, the slight smirk on his lips didn't go unnoticed as he told you to follow him to his office. Which is why you were there, thinking of an excuse to use about why you couldn't treat the patient… The patient… Whose name was John Weitz. Whose name you had forgotten the moment House had shown up in your life.

"I'm off the case," you told House, your voice unwavering.

He raised his eyebrows in curiosity and analyzed you. He could see your crumbling underneath your façade and wondered what had made you built that wall in the first place. "I beg to differ," he finally said. He doesn't care if your ability to treat this patient is compromised. This who situation is like a grand experiment to him now, now that he knows that for some reason you cannot, under any circumstance, work on this case. And he is not about to let that go. "Because if you get off of this case, I will not fire you. Because there is so much worse that I can do. I can ruin your entire career; make you unemployable in any institution from the day you move on from my employment. Never forget that." He seemed intimidating the way his was now, somewhere between cruel and demanding.

You feel the need to cry, but don't. Crying wouldn't change that you had already given up fighting House on this subject. You're stuck in a living Hell and Satan was standing before you, feeding off of your suffering.

House noticed how glassy your eyes looked, as if you were about to break down. He is tempted to push you, but doesn't. Though he felt the unbearable need to find out why you couldn't do this case, he enjoyed the game too much. And so he ultimately decided to let the game play out for however long it took. It would be more fun that way, he told himself.  
Before he could speak another word, Cuddy rushed into the room, huffing. "(Name) is off of the case." It was only after she said those words that she had noticed you standing in the room, next to House, a poignant look upon your face. She sighs inwardly, regretting that she had chosen then to burst into House's office. She had made the situation worse for you, and she knew that all too well at that moment.

"And pray-tell, why can't (Name) be on the case?" there was a sickening bit of humor in his voice that made your stomach coil.

"It doesn't matter; I'm staying on the case. And that's that." Your hands balled up into fists and you exited the room, leaving a slightly disappointed House with an angered Cuddy.

* * *

You're with John in a moment that he is not having a seizure. He had sweet features, a cute face with a button nose and soft-brown eyes. Even sick, his blond hair was neat. Though most people would consider him to be attractive, you no longer felt even the slightest pull of attraction toward him. He was sleeping, and he almost looked peaceful, but you felt no remorse in disturbing his sleep. You no longer loved him, but seeing him in the hospital bed made your heart pang with pain.

"It's been a while, huh?" he rasped.

You nodded, looking down at your feet. "When you get out of here, I never want to see you again. I don't know why you chose this hospital, but what's done is done, and once it's over if I ever see you again…"

"I'm sorry it ended the way it did, (Name). But, I miss you. I understand why you're mad at me and why you would never want to see me again, but if we could just get passed what—" He sounded hopeful, but you thought it was for the wrong reasons. He should have felt hopeful to come out of the hospital alive, not hopeful to win you back.

"It's out of the question," you whispered coldly. "Now, I'm here to tell you that the MRI revealed slight swelling in your brain, and that the EEG confirmed that you have epilepsy. I need to draw blood in order to see what the swelling in your brain is caused by."

He looked at you, unfazed by your words. "I'm glad that you're here right now. I don't know if I'll get another chance to tell you this, because I'm not sure if you'll show up again or if we'll be alone again, but I want to tell you this one last time. I love you."

Almost as if some great force had willed it, House had stepped in. "(Name) out. A nurse can draw his blood." You were not sure whether or not you were thankful that House had showed up when he had. Despite the fact that his face did not show it, he was possessed by green-eyed jealousy. When he had heard that man say those words to you, he had wanted to do nothing more than do beat the living crap out of him.

You walked out of the room quickly and House followed behind you in the hallway. He grabbed your arm to stop you from walking any further. "Ex-boyfriend?" he finally asked, his voice stoic. He needed a justifiable reason for that man to have said those words, so that he could later torture him with the wrong medication.

"Screw you, House. You have the infernal need to know absolutely everything. Well here you go, yes, he was my ex-boyfriend. I caught him cheating on me with a nurse, and he said it was just a mindless, drunken fuck. I gave him another chance, and he had done it again. So I left him, and no matter how much I ignored him, how much I told him that I could never love him, and had stopped loving him since the first time, he did not and would not stop trying to win me back. What else do you want to know? Do you want to know how he liked to fuck me?" You were nearly screaming and you couldn't hold back the tears any longer. They came streaming down your face as you trembled in front of him, completely stripped raw of the hard outer-shell you had so laboriously grown.

As he listened to you speak, he found himself thinking a malicious thought—one that doctors should never think. He wanted the patient dead, more than anything, but no matter how much he wanted to kill him, he knew that he could not do it. "I—" he found himself, for the first time in a long time, to be completely speechless. There was only a single thought in his mind and that was that he had hurt you, by being so keen to see that this game be played to competition. "I—" he began again, taking a few weak steps toward you. Perhaps his actions would speak louder than words. But House was sure about one thing—he was certainly not apologizing for what he had done, for he never apologized. Your cries grew louder and he was forced by this inconvenience (to him) to take you into an empty room in the hospital. You were too weak from the emotional exhaustion to fight him on this.

He drew the blinds in the room, and then turned to you. He sat on the hospital bed and watched you cry. Slowly he began to realize what he was feeling—utterly unbearable heartbreak at the sight of tears falling down your beautiful cheeks. "When you get a hold of yourself, go home. You're off the case." This is all he allows himself to do, at first. He had overstepped too many boundaries with you already, and now it was time for him to draw a line. He was capable of acknowledging when he went too far, but only on rare occasions.

You continued to sob, unsure of what else to do. You had carried an onerous well of feelings for so long, and now that that well had burst open, you could do nothing more than fall flat on your face from the sudden change and let yourself breakdown. It was only worsened by House's presence, a man who you despised; a man who drove you to the brink of insanity.

"(Name)" he breathed into the air, feeling as if he was losing control of a dark desire within him. He would do anything to stop another tear from falling from your eyes. He stood from the bed and left his cane on top of it. His legs screamed in pain, but he willed himself to limp on, to limp toward you. "You look terrible when you cry." The comment had yielded a laugh from you. He was mere inches away from you, and that heat that the both of you had experienced only two times before surged in between you two once more.

You looked up at him and then stepped closer to him. You move your hands to his chest, your fingers trembling like leaved in the cold autumn air. Before you could process what you are doing, your head was buried into his chest and you were holding onto his shirt for dear life. Cautiously, he wrapped his arms around you. With every passing second, he told himself to not do anything more. You two were colleagues, and this was going too far. But then, he nuzzled his nose into your hair and smelled the sweet scent of it. He closed his eyes, listening to your quieting sobs.

Then, when his head had cleared from the fog you had made, he pulled away from you, grabbed his cane, and left you in the room alone, broken and confused. You could still feel the beat of his heart against your fingertips. You placed a hand to your chest, telling your own heart to calm. You could not deny the fact of how he made you forget the pain of John so easily, how he could make you relax against his touch when all he normally did was rile you up. "House," you whispered, but he was already long gone. Your heart beat painfully once more, not because of John, but because of House.

* * *

A/N: I edited this chapter (yay)! What did you think?

Thank you to everyone who has given me kudos/favorites, reviews, etc…

Song I listened to while writing this: Pain in My Heart—Otis Redding: www. youtube watch?v=7vAtaliwuqs


	6. Chapter 6

vi

House had thrown himself onto the couch in Wilson's office, grunting when his back had finally made contact with its semi-hardness. He avoided looking Wilson in the eyes, partly because he didn't want to let Wilson believe that he was capable of feeling something other than misery and pain, and partly because he was worried that if he actually looked into Wilson's eyes, he would tell him the words even he himself couldn't accept.

"I hugged her, and goddamnit, I stopped there," House said, looking out of the window, watching the birds fly into the sky. He wished there that they would fly up and up until the atmospheric pressure became too little and they would die, come crashing back to the earth only to explode from the sudden change in pressure.

"Well, hello to you too," Wilson said, sighing and dropping his pencil. He wasn't House's therapist, but it felt like he was more times than not. "So, you did something respectable as a human being and didn't abuse a woman's body. Let me notify the press! Do you have a picture? Maybe we could make some money off of this story."

House scoffed, "Will you get over your need to mock me and get on with your great and mystical powers of rationalization?" His put a hand on his throbbing forehead and recalled how it felt to walk away from you, his heart feeling as if it had fallen through the linoleum floor of the hospital.

"We are talking about (Name), correct?"

"Of course we are? Why else would I be here? Because of Cuddy?" House laughed, "Yes, it's because of (Name). We've been over this. I have the insatiable need to strip her of all her clothing and make her beg for me. But here I am, _hugging_ her. What the hell is wrong with me, Wilson?"

"And what circumstances were you two in for this completely tragedy to have occurred?"

House shifted on the couch, finally having mustered the courage to look into Wilson's eyes. "Well if you must know, her pet rabbit died," he spoke facetiously. "The patient I'm treating turns out to be her ex-boyfriend who had cheated on a few times. He proclaimed his love like her, like an idiot, and she broke down. I had to drag into an empty room; she was practically screaming at me."

"So, you made some outlandish comment at the scene you had witnessed, caused her to have this break-down and then you dragged her into a room to hug her?" Wilson questioned, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

"She wouldn't stop crying. No matter what I said, she just kept on crying, so I hugged her. That's standard protocol, I think?

"Yeah, I mean if you're a normal human being who has a heart."

"I mean sex in a hospital bed is what you're supposed to do the second time they cry, so I didn't want to rush things."

"So, you hugged her?"

"Well, she clung onto me and then I wrapped my arms around her. I believe that that is a hug."

"And you didn't make another move on her?"

"Scout's honor," House lifted left hand up, his palm open and he put his right hand over his chest.

"I'd say that you have actually developed feelings for her, and the way you told that story sounded like were feeling jealous because of the ex-boyfriend's proclamation of love, which ultimately caused you to ask intrusive questions she didn't want to answer."

"You're really no help at all."

"Stop being childish. Denying the feelings that you are feeling won't get you anywhere. You don't just want to bed her, you want—"

"What, a relationship? I don't need one, and I certainly don't want one. Not with her."

"Then why are you here, using my couch?"

"I like this couch, and I like to annoy you even more. So win-win for me."

* * *

House hadn't wanted to call you, but he had to. The patient's—your ex-boyfriend's apartment—had been inaccessible, because it had been burned down just a day ago due to a fire that had started on one of the lower levels of the apartment building. Therefore, House was forced to call you. You had known John Weitz the best, and were the easiest to contact. But also, he trusted that you would lie minimally and that he would be able to see through your lies easily, for he felt like he knew you.

You gulped when you had received the phone-call from him. "I thought I was off the case," you began. You had been sitting on your couch, curled up underneath a plush, deep-blue blanket whose color had reminded you of House's eyes in the moonlight that night by the dumpster.

"You were off the case, but then your ex's apartment got burned down. You know him, (Name). I just need to ask you a few questions, so if you could get over your useless, unsettled feelings of the past—"

"I am over them completely," and it was the truth you had told House, not only because you were defending yourself from his harsh comment, but because you felt like he _needed_ to know. "You get to ask me three questions."

"Had he shown any signs of epilepsy while you were dating him?" House detests the facts that he needed to ask you this questions. As curious of a man as he was, he had no desire to know about you past relationship. He believed you when you had told him that you no longer felt anything for John. Perhaps it was the firmness in your voice that made him believe that you had spoken the truth, but he had gotten it. What he wasn't sure about was if he was feeling comfort or relief or both at the fact that you had no remaining romantic feelings for your ex-boyfriend. And that was the fact that was eating away at him in the back of his mind.

"No, as far as I can remember."

"What kind of cleaning products did he use?"

"All organic, not a chemical in-sight. He was a bit of a freak about that."

"And you dated this guy?" House said mockingly.

"You're lucky that I'm not going to count that as a question. What's your last question?"

"Has he ever had any breathing problems?"

"Asthma, and if that's not in his medical record, I'll be surprised."

"It's not…" House stared off into the distance, and then it dawned upon him. He ended the call without saying another word to you, leaving you saying his name a few times before you would close your mobile phone.

* * *

John had an hour left to live of his life left, if that. You stared through the glass wall separating you from your ex-boyfriend, and sighed. "Why were you even here in the first place?" you asked yourself time and time again, but it always hailed the same response, "Because he should have someone he loves with him in his final moments." His mother and father were both long gone, having died in a car crash, and his younger brother could not fly out from Portland in time to see John one last time. And so, that left you, unwilling to see this man, to watch him lie on his deathbed. But, once House had called you delivering the news (and because he was a cruel, miserable man, he had to tell you), you knew you couldn't stay in your home, while John was dying.

It had been small-cell lung carcinoma. The cancer had ultimately created a micro-tumor in his brain, which had caused limbic encephalitis, and that caused the epilepsy. John's asthma had never been asthma… If you had had the slightest inclination that it was something more while you had dated him, perhaps he wouldn't have been dying. But, it was too late for what-if's, John too long gone.

As you watched him take his last breaths, Cameron walked toward you, and offered you a sympathetic look. "The reason you were off the case…" she began slowly, hesitantly, "Was it because you two were once together?"

You nodded somberly, watching John lying still and listening to the sound of the heart monitor flat-lining. "I couldn't treat him. He needed someone who could give him proper medical care. But what difference did it make in the end?"

"I understand how you're feeling. My husband—he died of cancer shortly after we had gotten married."

"You don't understand how I feel. I don't love John anymore. I haven't for a long time. I'm only here because no matter how terrible a person you are; your last dying memory shouldn't be of you alone, feeling as if you're falling into a great black abyss without anyone there to hold your hand. And maybe I couldn't hold his hand, but he saw me here, and that was enough for him," you spoke coldly, remembering the small nod and smile he offered you when he had first seen you standing outside of his room. "I don't need to listen to your sob story, Cameron. I don't need your empathy. And I wish that I could honestly thank you for your attempt at connecting with me, but I can't."

* * *

Originally, you had wandered into House's office looking for him. You needed someone to scream at, to kick and yell at, and House seemed to be a suitable candidate. Even if he made your heart race, even if he made your stomach erupt into a flock of butterflies, you stilled reviled him for all he was. It was simple to hate him, and much easier than it was to hate anyone else. But, when he hadn't been there, you had sat in his desk chair and waited. When you had gotten bored, you searched through its draws and found the bottle of whiskey stowed away so perfectly for you to find on that day.

House stopped in front of his office door, and peered inside, watching you as you took a swig of the golden liquid from its bottle. He saw your tears glimmer in the pale lamp light of his dark office, and he knew why you had sat there. He knew the moment that he had seen your inebriated self that you had come to look for him, to fight with him, punch him where it hurt, because you were hurting. It was his fault that you were in the hospital first place, his fault that you had come to watch John die. His sick, twisted pleasures had forced him to make that call, to tempt you to come to the hospital.

When House entered his office, he realized he didn't limp away like the damned coward of a cripple he was, because he wanted to be punched at and beaten. He deserved to be clawed apart for what he had done to you. But, the more steps he took toward you, he realized then that he knew you wouldn't assault him in your drunken fury. He thirsted to know how you would react to his presence, his mind wandering to the filthiest depths he could ever indulge in. "Are you going to leave some in there for me, (Name)?" he finally asked, his face as blank as a fresh blanket of snow upon the earth.

You looked up at him, your eyes bloodshot from both the alcohol and your own tears. "You don't deserve a single drop," no matter how drunk you were, your words were not slurred. The pain in your heart made you sharp enough to speak coherently. You wished that you could pass-out and make this entire day turn into one great, big black mark that you would never have to remember, but not even the alcohol could do that for you.

House stared at the half-empty bottle in your hand and felt his heartbreak. Nevertheless, he managed a laugh contrary to how he truly felt. He watched you carefully as you arose from his office chair, and as you staggered toward him sloppily. You stopped close to him, and he could smell your whiskey-laced breath.

"I had forgotten him completely. You had made me forget him. I need you to make me forget him again." You knew your words sounded desperate, but truth be told—you were desperate.

Normally, House would have taken advantage of a woman in this situation. Instead, he took one step toward you and whispered into your ear, "You're pitiful," his voice was dangerously low. Though he had had every intention to walk out and leave you in your drunken state, he found himself frozen where he was.

You leaned in to him, your heart pounding in your chest, "You love pitiful," you whispered back, closing the space between you two. You laced your arms around him, and pulled him toward you. House lost all control he had, and neared his lips toward yours, needing to taste you, to take away your pain with his own lips. But, time was not on his side. "House," you mumbled, passing out in his arms.

As you lay limply in his arms, he, for the first time in years, shed a tear. He set you down on the floor, and limped toward his desk, taking the bottle of whiskey into his hand. He took a large swig before setting the bottle beside your body. As you lay limply in his arms, he, for the first time in years, shed a tear. He set you down on the floor, and limped toward his desk, taking the bottle of whiskey into his hand. He took a large swig before setting the bottle beside your body. His knee shrieked out in pain, and he rustled through his pocket for his Vicodin. He wondered if he should take three, maybe even four, but changed him mind and only took two. All the Vicodin could do in the end was numb him, take the edge off of the pain he didn't want to face.

He couldn't take you home, and not certainly to his own apartment. He paged Cuddy instead, knowing she would come rushing to his office soon enough. He looked at you one last time before leaving, drying the trail of the tear that had fallen with the palm of his hand. "What have I done to you?" he asked, with only the stale air of the room to hear him. But, the real question was: What had you done to him?

* * *

A/N: I debated about how to end this chapter a thousand times in my head, and though that the reader passing out before kissing House would be the best option, in the end.

Sorry—I didn't edit this chapter. I'm a bit pressed for time right now. Next chapter will be edited, I promise.

Song I listened to as I wrote this: Irma Thomas—I Need Your Love So Bad: www. youtube watch?v=7_XiW7VrQSo


	7. Chapter 7

vii

The ground outside was covered in a thick blanket of snow, and the air outside was as bitter cold as an evening in New England could be. You took no time rushing into the hospital that evening, savoring the feeling of snowflakes falling onto and then melting against your cold-blushed skin. You spotted House struggling to walk on the icy ground, nearly slipping once. You blushed heavily as you watched him from afar. You knew better than to approach him, but nevertheless, you walked up to him wordlessly as he slowly made his way to the hospital entrance.

"I assume you're here to carry me inside. I prefer to be picked up and swung over the shoulder. Bonus points if you slap my ass."

"Oh so now your godly feet shouldn't have to touch the ground?"

"Oh stop it, you." he spoke in a fake-abashed tone. "So, if you're not here to carry me inside, I assume you're going to give me some Christmas present I'll end up throwing in the garbage can when you're not looking."

"No, actually, I just have disappointment and nothingness to give you for Christmas. So merry screw you and a happy go to hell," you spoke rudely, losing your temper with him. Highs and lows between you two had only increased ever since the night you had gotten drunk in his office. You bickered often, but also equally as often, you two found yourselves sharing what could almost have been described as tender moments. That is, if House was capable of sharing a tender moment with anyone. You hurried ahead of him, no longer wanting to be in his company.

However, your time away from House didn't last long as he met you by the elevator as you waited for it to come to the ground floor. "You can't even run away from a cripple. I'm surprised that natural selection hasn't weeded you out yet."

"Says the cripple who by somehow manages to get places without being carried anywhere."

"Touché," he muttered as the elevator doors opened.

And as you both waited for the elevator to reach the floor where House's office was, you two took turns glancing at each other in secrecy. Your hearts pumped like you two were stallions running free on a vast field. House looked at your first, swallowing thickly. He wished that the elevator would by some chance stop working at that moment, so that he would be trapped with you. Maybe then he would have the chance to kiss you, but alas, he didn't believe in any god, and so he had nothing on his side. And he certainly would not take matters into his own hand and stop the elevator on his own. Then you looked at him, watched him as he swayed side to side waiting for the elevator to reach its destination. You almost dared to say something to him, but shied away. You quickly turned your head to the side, feeling embarrassed. This continued until finally your eyes met his, and your gazes locked. By then, the elevator had reached its destination and the doors had opened to reveal Foreman, Cameron and Chase waiting. Your heads snapped forward, and you both pretended as if neither had felt any sort of inexplicably powerful and riveting connection in the moment that your eyes had met.

"Anything happen in that elevator?" Foreman asked suggestively, raising an eyebrow at you thinking that you would be the easier one to break.

You vehemently denied the notion, because technically nothing had happened. At least, nothing physical had happened. But in the sublime silence of the elevator, there was a flame that had slowly grown in the burning hot stare shared by you and House. It had fostered a feeling that you had seldom found before, and oh, it had felt like an eternity had passed between you two, and that you had known House truly for the few moments that your eyes had danced passionately with each other. And you knew that House had felt the same, from the way he raised his hand to the small of your back and guided you passed the three musketeers.

He dropped his hand after Foreman had stepped aside to let you through, knowing that if he let his hand linger in the sweet hollow of your back any longer, Foreman would have taken notice to his gesture. He licked his dry lips before limping passed you. No matter how much he yearned to look back at you, he willed himself to trudge on.

"Nothing happened," you whispered coldly back at Foreman. "And I suggest you don't pry any further on the subject. House won't take kindly to it, but this time you have more to be scared about than House." There would be a time and a place for you to profess your motley of feelings for House, but now was not the time.

Foreman contemplated pushing the subject for a moment before pushing the thought aside. While he would have loved nothing more than to push House's buttons, pushing a colleague's buttons would only come back to bight in the ass. "Sorry I asked," he spoke placidly. Foreman was like a statue, always emotionless, but so see-through. You turned and looked into his blank eyes, and you knew he had changed his mind about pursing his scheme from the way he had refused to allow himself to show an iota of emotion. Deliberately choosing to be emotionless was his tell. He would be even more stone cold than was normal for him, and that was how you would know his true thoughts and intentions.

"Thank you, Foreman," you breathed before you raced after House who had managed to limp far away from the four of you.

Chase turned to Foreman, and smirked, "Fifty says they get together within a week."

"Fifty they break up a week later," was Foreman's reply.

Cameron sighed, "Isn't the betting thing getting old?"

"No, but don't you dare tell House," Chase replied quickly, and then laughed. "We'd ask you to join in on the fun, but it seems you're taking (Name)'s side.

* * *

The day had gone by slowly, with a case coming late in the evening. Truthfully, all of you would have gone home if House hadn't decided to experiment on one of Wilson's patients by injecting the patient with an experimental drug that would might have turned the patient's skin purple if the patient indeed had non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Needless to say, when Violet turned violet, Cuddy had stormed into House's office and demanded that House and his team do clinic duty until the clinic closed. You had thought the whole ordeal was quite humorous, but when you looked at Cuddy standing there, fuming, you had felt a rage at your dear friend that you had never felt toward her before.

 _"What the hell do you think you were doing? That was the most ludicrous, if not the most insensitive thing you have ever done to one of the patients of this hospital. Our mal-practice insurance is already through the roof because of you. Are you asking me to fire you? Because, feel free to leave whenever you can. Just give me due notice so that I'll be sure the elevators aren't working when you have to take your belongings." Cuddy's face was the color of a ripe tomato burning in the sun's heat. She breathed heavily, standing a foot from House. If she were any madder, you thought that she would have lost her composure and hit him._

 _"Really? What about the time I removed a corpse's head just because it was Tuesday and they put pickles on my Reuben 'by mistake'? Or how about the time I injected someone with hoisin sauce because I he looked half-Asian? And don't forget about the time I got someone to tattoo your face onto a patient's ass as a treatment for melanoma? I hardly think that this is the worst I have done." House was getting off on this, and it only marginally disturbed you. But then you caught the glint in House's eyes when Cuddy huffed, and you felt yourself stiffen at the sight._

 _"You're right. That isn't the worst you have done, but it's the straw that broke the camel's back. So, pack your things. You're out of here." There was a flash in her eyes of some unnamed feeling that you wished you could identify._

 _"Alright, give me your thong and once I've packed and I'll have all of my belongings." House joked nonchalantly._

 _You curled your hands into a fist, feeling your nails digging into your palms. There was one pitiful thought in your mind at that moment: How could he harass_ _ **her**_ _?_

 _"Alright, if you're going to be happy to leave, then stay and do clinic duty. That's right—clinic duty. For the rest of the day, and the hours you work today won't count toward your weekly clinic hours. And that goes for the rest of your team to, so no new case today." She took a step closer to him, carefully eyes him._

 _You felt like a lioness, threatened by another female who was equally as formidable as yourself. She had stepped into your territory, and you needed her to exit as soon as possible or there would be bloodshed. You readied yourself to pounce._

 _"Merry Christmas to you too, Cuddy," House spoke, his face nearing towards hers. Cuddy was the first to break the stare, looking around the room nervously when she turned away._

 _It was too late—you had gotten ready to react too late. House was already interested in playing his games with Cuddy. You stared at your feet bitterly, feeling as if your heart was about to fall out of your chest and beat miserably on the floor._

 _Cuddy looked back from the door, smiling weakly at you. She noticed your sadness and felt a familiar pang in her heart. Had it been something House had done this morning? It was always men that had toyed with you, mistreated you. She wished she could comfort you; hold you in your arms. At first, she thought she had only cared for you immensely—like you were her own sister. She had denied allowing herself to love you for so long, but now that you stood there so in such dejection, she couldn't help but want to love you, to tell you that everything would be okay. She admitted to herself, when she stepped outside the door, that she could no longer deny the feelings she had always felt for you._

 _What you didn't notice that after Cuddy had left, House looked over to you staring at your feet. He regretted the words he had said to Cuddy so blatantly in front of you. He didn't want Cuddy; he only wanted to mess with her. Who he wanted was you, and he wished he could express that to you now, but his wish was thwarted by the presence of the other three members of the team in the room._

 _"Well, you heard the task-master. Get yourselves to the clinic and at least pretend like you're useful. If you need to find me, follow the sounds of mutant ninja turtles and button clicking." And with that, House was off, leaving you to think about whether House was interested in you, or only toying with your fragile feelings._

* * *

Finally, the clinic had closed and you were free to go home. You turned in your last file to the nurse at the desk as you watched the Christmas festives around you, long-term patients mingling in Santa hats and reindeer antlers, laughing despite the pains of their illnesses. Cuddy saw you passed the circle of patients she stood in, and waved toward you. You gulped uncomfortably when she walked toward you, carrying a plastic cup of cheap eggnog in her hand.

"Why don't you stay a little while? The patients and nurses would be happy if you would stay even just a little bit. And I wouldn't mind either."

You took the cup from her hand and mustered a smile, "Thank you, really, but I think maybe I should go." You couldn't rid your mind of the thought of her and House so close to each other, pushing each other's limits. Maybe you had delusioned yourself into thinking that House was interested in you, when he really had been interested in Cuddy.

Cuddy noticed the sadness pooling your eyes, took your by the arm and guided you to a hallway just outside of the clinic. "Alright, what's wrong? There's no one here, you can tell me."

"Nothing. I was just thinking… Are you interested in House?"

Cuddy laughed heartily, but stopped when she saw a frown form on your face. "House and I, we prank each other, we annoy each other, but we're there for each other in the worst of times, even if he doesn't want to admit it. He's the one person I can't stand, but can't help being friends with. I'm not interested in him in any way," she told you calmly, "But what I'm wondering is why you are asking?" She watched as you turned away from her and stared at the wall. "You love him, don't you?" She asked, breaking the silence.

"I—I don't know if it's love, but something's there, and it's not a feeling that can go away. Amidst all the hate I have for him, there is something that draws me to him, something that makes my heart race whenever I'm close to him."

Cuddy nodded, this time, sadness pooling in her own eyes. "You have to be careful, (Name). I don't want to see you hurt again." _Your heartbreak would break my heart_ , she didn't say. How could she tell you now that you had told her that you were in love with someone else, a man nonetheless?

You looked at her, and saw the tears she wasn't aware that she was shedding quite yet. "You're crying," you spoke softly, removing a tissue from your pocket and wiping her tears away with it. Cuddy placed her hand over yours, savoring the soft feel of your skin against her fingertips. That's when you realized that Cuddy could never have been interested in House, because all along she had been interested in you. She hadn't supported you only as a friend through the thick and thin of your relationships and break-ups, but as a lovesick woman waiting for a chance to become yours. "I never realized. I'm so sorry, Cuddy."

"That's how love works. Except, it's so much more painful when it's unrequited." She leaned in to you, placing a kiss upon your cheek. "Go to House, (Name). I've seen the way he looks at you. I know he hasn't left the building yet."

You nodded, moving a stray piece of Cuddy's hair behind her ear. "Thank you," you whispered.

Cuddy watched you leave, wiping away her tears with the wet tissue that you had once held in your own hand. Maybe it would be enough for you to be happy loving someone else. It would be better than you be unhappy with her, with someone you could never love, she decided in the end.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading!

Song I listened to while writing this: Love Is A Loosing Game—Amy Winehouse: www. youtube watch?v=nMO5Ko_77Hk


	8. Chapter 8

viii

You had searched through the hospital for House, but to no avail. He had not checked himself out, and you knew that as you had checked the log several times that evening. In need of a short rest, you sat in House's chair behind his desk. You kicked your legs in frustration, wondering where that damned man had gone. Contemplating, you took his oversized blue and red tennis ball into your hand and bounced in against his desk, over and over, until you gave up with a huff.

A feeling of exhaustion took over your body and your eyes began to flutter closed; you muttered, "House," before closing your eyes fully.

 _Then, in that moment between being awake and asleep, the beginnings of a melancholy tune caught your ear and brought a driving energy back into your veins. You followed the music, out of House's office and to the piano that stood at the end of a hallway. It was like you were in a trance, the music having a spell-binding effect on you. Its bittersweet bluesy notes entered your heart, and it was as if that player knew exactly what you were feeling, like the language of your heart could be spelled out in those black and white keys._

 _House sat there on the piano bench, his eyes closed as his fingers swept over the black and white keys naturally. His body moved to the tune, and it looked as if he was in a state of pure bliss. He felt every note, as if his heart beat to the pulse of the song. You stood mere feet away from him in awe. He looked so beautiful playing the piano in that moment, and the sight of him etched itself into your memory. You couldn't bear to stop him in the middle of the piece, and waited until his hands gracefully dropped on his lap after he played the last, low chord._

 _You took defined steps toward him, your arm trembling and tentatively reaching out toward him. Your fingers brushed up against his shoulder, and he turned around on the bench quickly, shocked at the sudden contact._

 _"It's dangerous to surprise me like that. I could've hit you with my cane," he said, grumbling. "Why haven't you gone home? Or are you too afraid of being alone on Christmas?"_

 _You shook your head at him, "No. I was looking for you."_

 _"Why?" he asked, stupefied by your forwardness._

 _"I don't know," you suddenly shied away, the miniscule part of you which reviled House telling you that this was a mistake. You turned to leave, but House took you by the arm and tugged you back toward him. You gasped, a feeling of warmth spreading over you._

 _He stood from the piano bench, and tugged you closer to him. "Don't go, not yet" he spoke whilst shaking his head. It was almost as if he was pleading, begging you. This was a side of House you had never seen before, the one that could beg and be sensitive. "You may not have a Christmas present for me, but I have something to give to you." His hand caressed your cheek, his heart pumping inside of his chest wildly, beating like a battle drum._

 _You were stunned when his lips finally met yours. Your immediate thought was to slap him and run away, but your body could not move. Slowly, your senses became more aware and you registered what was happening. You kissed back demurely at first, but the kiss deepened quickly. House pulled you closer to him, one of his arms wrapping around your waist and the other sliding slowly down your neck. The kiss was like nothing you had ever experienced before. The kiss had been a spark which ignited a burning hot flame, so bright and powerful that it could never die. You two separated only because of the need of oxygen, for if you didn't need to breathe, you two would have stood there, kissing forever._

 _"You were right. I don't want to be alone, House. Take me home tonight for Christmas." Your hands traveled to his chest, where you felt his heart racing underneath his skin and bones._

 _He nodded, before closing the space between you once more and claiming your lips against. "Alright," he mumbled against your lips._

* * *

You awoke from your dream by the sound of House's cane tapping against his desk. "Glad you're still here. We have a case," House spoke gruffly.

"What time is it?" you asked him groggily, rubbing your eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Just past midnight, I'm guessing. But the time doesn't matter, because you're not going home. The other three's cellphones are off, so it's just you and me for tonight."

All too quickly, you felt fully awake. House's voice had caused a hibernating fire within you to awake and burn, hot and bright. You couldn't ignore the sudden change in you. Oh, how you needed to breathe in House's sent, to feel his lips against yours! The arousal pooling within you pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. You watched House's every move, how his lips twitched when his eyes met yours and then he would turn away slightly, trying to mask the half-smile that played on his face.

What happened next was a blur to you, though you knew that House had practically dragged you through the hospital, into an elevator and down to the basement where the morgue was. At least, in retrospect, you knew that that was what had happened. You also knew that, most likely, House had insulted you several times, made a comment on how your cleavage looks and then popped a few pills all before you two entered the morgue.

"Your patient's already dead. Remind me again why we're doing this?" you asked, irritated that you were forced to be in the hospital, much less the morgue, at this hour.

"I'm a necrophiliac," he replied nonchalantly as he prepped himself to examine the corpse.

"Do you even have permission to perform an autopsy?"

"Yeah, you see about that..." House never finished the statement. While you wanted to yell at him the consequences that performing an unauthorized autopsy could bring on the both of you, you couldn't bring yourself to stop him.

House's eyes, which hid nothing from you, were filled with a slurry of intense emotions that had you worried. The most prominent emotion was a sort of sadness, a cruel depression, that made you want to hold him in your arms and tell him that everything would be alright. You needed to know why House was like this, so frantic over a corpse. But, you knew all too well that House would do what he wanted despite how you felt. And so, you decided to assist him with whatever this was.

* * *

Incision after incision, you grew more apprehensive. This autopsy was going nowhere, but House insisted that you two continue. You nearly contemplated leaving him, but objected immediately to the thought. He needed you here. He could've tracked down Foreman, Cameron or Chase. Their cellphones being off meant nothing to him. He would've gone to their apartment if he wanted their assistance. He chose you. He needed you for this.

The autopsy had confirmed only what had been confirmed by doctors before, the patient having suffered both a stroke and a heart-attack. This patient, a middle-aged man, had been diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson's disease three years prior to this latest and final hospitalization. He had responded to medication for the disease limitedly. He had suffered from multiple infarcts in the past five years, but was on blood thinners for the condition.

"He was complaining of severe leg pain for weeks before being hospitalized," House muttered before cutting open the corpse's thigh. His face turned a pale white, and he dropped the knife that he had once held firmly in his hand. His hands trembled, and he closed his eyes, willing himself not to show more emotion that he already had. When he opened his eyes, his face was stone cold.

Walking closer to House with trepidation, you peered over his shoulder. "Muscle death," you spoke quietly. "Muscle death caused by an infarction." As you spoke those words, it had dawned upon you. That was the reason why House now limped—that was the reason why House wanted to autopsy this body. As morbid as it was, House wanted to relive the pain of having lost function in his leg due to muscle death caused by an infarction.

"The patient had vascular parkinsonism. Gone untreated, he continued to have multiple infarctions throughout his body. The last heart attack was all his body could take. However, the muscle death having gone unnoticed had caused the patient's kidney function to decline. Arguably, kidney failure could have killed him if the heart attack hadn't killed him first." House turned off the recording device and disposed of his scrubs. He moved rigidly, and you could tell by the way he walked that he felt an infinitely greater pain in his leg than he had before. He seemed to be a winter soldier, frostbitten and having all hope and pride beat out of him, on his way home after losing a long, grueling and completely useless war. All that was left was the husk of a man who could've felt happiness before.

You removed your own scrubs, but never removed your eyes from House. You were terrified of what he may do next. When he finally limped out of the morgue, you followed after him. Something told you that he wanted to be alone, but you could not listen to that part of you that told you to give him the space he needed.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. And sorry that this is such a short chapter. But I needed a bridge to what happens next. I will update again this weekend!

Song I listened to while writing this: Hugh Laurie—St. James' Infirmary: watch?v=7tm-9t-ZF2s


	9. Chapter 9

ix

Snow coated the parking lot liberally. As you chased after House, your feet slipped against the slippery snow-coated asphalt. You couldn't think as you chased after him; you couldn't process what you were doing. You yelled his name, over and over, but he never turned around or stopped. He wouldn't give up until you caught up to him. Now, it should have been easier to chase after a crippled man who could barely manage even a brisk limp. But, he had already been half-way out the door by the time you had entered the elevator to get to the ground floor.

"House! Will you just please stop, for a moment, just one moment?" You yelled, your throat feeling raw from your own persistent screaming. But nothing. He trudged on, emotionally distant, building up an emotionless, painless façade that he would rather die than see crumble down.

He reached his car, his hand shaking. His car keys fell from his hand, clanking against the ground. Hitting his car door with his first, he yelled out. He felt a pair of quivering arms wrap around him, and hold him tight. He shut his eyes, pressing them closed tightly. "You're an idiot to come out here, chase after me without a coat on. I've never seen someone do something more brainless in my life. You're fired."

You kissed his back, "Good. I never wanted this job in the first place," you laughed shakily. You held him tighter, wanting to let him know that you were there for him, whether he wanted you to be there or not.

He tore away from your embrace and turned around. He watched you prudently, unsure of how to act next. Need took over sense, lust took over better judgement, and before he could weigh his options, he pressed his lips against yours.

The kiss wasn't slow, but rather needy. You responded to the feel of his lips against your own immediately. His lips were like a hot fire and you're a cold ice, and when they came together steam formed. You felt warmed by his touch, and you forgot the bitter cold of the winter night. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying a hand in his hair. You broke the kiss soon after, gasping for air, but still holding on to him, fearing that if you let go of him, you would wake up disappointed from just another dream.

"I need you," he told you, tracing your lips over with his thumb. He breathed heavily, waiting for you to say something, to do something, to indicate that you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

You nodded, slowly at first, but then firmly. "I don't care if this is going to be some one-night thing, some messy love affair, or whatever else it can be, because I need you right now as much as you need me. Take me home, House; goddamnit, just take me home."

* * *

He smashed you against his door the moment you entered his apartment. His every kiss was pure ecstasy. You got addicted to his lips so quickly, from the first taste of him, you knew that no other's lips could make you crave and lust the way his did. How could you settle for less after you've found pure perfection? And, oh, words could not describe the way House's lips felt against your own. Every kiss made you feel more and more intoxicated. You felt like you were floating on a cloud with him by your side, feeling like you had lived your entire life just for this moment, for this intimacy.

He broke a passionate kiss all too quickly, his hands trembling at your hips. "Are you sure that you want this?" He asked, though his eyes pleaded that you reassure him that you want him.

You could only nod at first, finding yourself speechless, but found words quickly, "Yes, House. I'm surer about this than anything else in my entire life." You waited for him to make the next move, but when he didn't you realized that he needed for you to be the one to make the next move. "Take me to your bedroom," you whispered into his ear.

Perhaps in your dreams, he would have carried you to his bed; his leg would have been magically healed, but life was not a dream. You wrapped his arm around your waist as you two walked to the bedroom, and you squeezed his ass letting him know that his gesture did not go unnoticed.

At the bedroom door, he dropped his cane and stopped you from walking any further. Wordlessly, he picked you up in his arms and carried you the rest of his way to his bed. Your heart felt like it had leapt outside of your chest. He limped slowly, carefully, so as to not drop you. He looked at you several times, held you even tighter, so unsure of whether or not this was in fact real.

The entirety of this situation felt unbelievable, completely surreal. He had dreamed of this moment many times, had drifted into many a daydream about this moment, but he had never imagined it quite like this. He was stripped of the hard, outer-skin that he had grown, now completely raw and exposed. That had worried you, he knew, it had torn you to pieces to watch him crumble. You were in a fragile state because he was in a fragile state. And, he wondered, maybe he was abusing your emotions now, like the cruel and miserable human he was. His heart ached at the thought that he would hurt you with this, that after this night, there would be nothing but a fucked-out husk of life, a fraction of what you once were. But, he couldn't stop. Oh, he needed you, and he wasn't about to let this moment crumble away in his hands. Consequences be damned, he needed to take this chance for a shot at even a night of happiness.

He set you on the bed as gently as he could, but perhaps not as gentle as some other man would. You looked up at him, your eyes glazed over by a thick lust that had swallowed you whole. If you had believed in God, maybe you would have thought it was a sin to want someone as much as you wanted House. You sat up and scooted toward him, slowly at first, as if he was a buck that would be startled by any sudden movement of yours. You undid his belt slowly, looking up at him. You saw his composure break, his eyes welling up with tears that he would never let fall.

"Don't," he whispered jaggedly. His hands contradicted his words, remaining at his side. Despite his words, he would do nothing to stop you.

"Please," you whispered back quietly, watching his pants fall and pool around his feet. You stroked his scar with your fingertips, once, twice, with a gentle tenderness.

He dipped his head back, closing his eyes tightly. When he felt your lips press against his leg scar—that damned useless thigh that was marred and mutilated maimed and disfigured—tears flowed from his eyes, down his cheeks and neck. How you could even look at it, much less kiss it, he wondered. He wasn't one to cry, but what you could do to him, the hold you had on him, made him more vulnerable than he had ever been in the entirety of his life.

You kissed his salty tears away, before you kissed his lips. Clothes came off quickly and were thrown across the room. Fully naked, he stared at the utter perfection before him. _How could someone so perfect want someone so damaged?_

He entered you slowly, and the feeling of him filling you up was pure ecstasy. He rocked into you, hitting you were you were the most sensitive. Time after time, you almost came, but he would not allow for this to end too soon. He was an attentive lover, and he knew how to please you. He knew how to touch your rosebud nipples, kneed them with his thumbs to make you mewl and moan his name. You arched your back when his hand drifted down to your clit. He rubbed circles into it mercilessly, and lavished at the sound of your sweet moans.

"House!" you screamed out, drifting into euphoria as your body felt at relaxed and tense all at the same time. You came moments before he came, and collapsed underneath his body.

He rolled off of you, breathing heavily. His rested his hand over yours, waiting to see if you wanted to cuddle. You smirked, resting your head on his chest. He readily wrapped his arm around you, holding you close to him. You drifted to sleep quickly, and House still awake, watched you snore into his chest quietly.

The inevitable misery that would follow him after this night consumed his thoughts. Maybe he should fire you, tomorrow, to lessen the pain of later. You would leave eventually, whether that was next day or years from then, you would leave just like Stacy had left him, just like all women left him. But unlike the hookers he usually took comfort in, he didn't want you to leave the next morning. Even though you were more than he deserved, he still wanted you. But he wasn't a horrible man because of that, for he had already been a horrible man long before—and that was the thing.

You awoke then, your eyes fluttering open. He hadn't noticed at first, and you took advantage of that fact. You watched him as he stared at the ceiling deep in thought. You weren't quite sure what he was thinking about, and no matter how much you yearned to know what was going on in his head; you decided it wasn't the time or the place.

"Tell me about your leg," you murmured into his chest, breaking the silence of the night.

"It would take me years to tell."

"That's fine with me." You replied stubbornly.

He had you in his arms now, and he wouldn't mess this up now. Not as long as he could have you. So, he didn't fight you on it. He wouldn't fight with you. Not that night. So, he sighed in defeat, and began to tell his sad tale. "It started with pain in my leg, and it was the only symptom that I had had. I came to the hospital asking for pain medication, something much stronger than what they would give me. But, they refused to give it to me, suspecting that I was addicted to narcotics."

"And were you?"

He took the bottle of Vicodin on his nightstand and popped a few pills into his mouth, his eyebrow raised as he watched you while he took the pills. "I was admitted to the hospital eventually. Misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis, I had finally diagnosed myself."

"Because all doctors that aren't you are incompetent?"

"At least an incompetent doctor such as yourself can understand that fact." He stroked your hair absentmindedly, "You already know what it was. Muscle death caused by an infraction." He stopped then, unsure of whether or not he should tell you of Stacy, but he never found the words to continue.

"There's more to the story," you said. You stroked his cheek with your hand.

"There's more to every story. Now, go to sleep or I'll push you out of the bed."

"I'd like to see you try."

He pushed you, you pushed him back. A nonchalant threat had turned into teasing, and teasing turned into a game, and the game turned into something much more. You straddled him, panting. AS your eyes met his, you momentarily forgot that he had never finished his story. You rocked your hips back and forth, slowly at first but gained pace quickly. You drifted into a fiery bliss…

The sun had risen, its light creeping in through the window. House hadn't gotten a lick of sleep, and you were still sleeping on his arm. "Don't ask me about the story of my leg," he told you, knowing that you wouldn't hear. "You don't need to know any more than I've told you." He was afraid of what may happen, what would happen if he thought too much of Stacy or the pain he constantly felt because of one moment years ago.

* * *

A/N: I'm so sorry for the long wait for this update! Work keeps me unbearably busy, but at least writing fanfiction keeps me somewhat sane. I wish I could write more often though.

I do hope that you have enjoyed this instalment of "Wicked Ones". I know this chapter was much anticipated by you all, and I hope that it did not disappoint.

An enormous thank you to all of you who continue to support me and this fanfic! Your reviews always leave me with a smile on my face.

Song I listened to while writing this: Irma Thomas—I Need Your Love So Bad: watch?v=xpZsxWa576Q


	10. Chapter 10

x

Deciding what to do the morning after had been the hardest decision for you to make. You were unsure of what you were to House, and therefore didn't know if it was wise to stay until he woke up. While you two had shared a tender moment or two and had shared a bed, that didn't mean that you meant anything to him more than a warm body. So, in the end, you decided to leave him, but not without watching him snore quietly into his pillow before finally forcing yourself to get dressed.

You stroked his hair softly, closing your eyes and relishing the feel of it against your fingertips. You wished that this quiet, peaceful moment would last forever. You wished that the feelings that ran through your veins so strongly and persistently wouldn't have to one day die out. But there wasn't such a thing as forever, you told yourself, and so you swallowed thickly before pulling yourself out of his bed.

The air around you felt cold compared to House's bed, his warm body next to your heating you pleasantly. You dressed quickly but made sure to not make any noise. It was imperative that you did not wake him up. You didn't want to cause conflict or an awkward moment that morning.

The door seemed daunting; you felt it was taunting you _. "Why don't you just strip and turn back? You know you want to be with him."_

You had regretted it, leaving without so much as a note much less a word, the moment you stepped out of his apartment, the door clicking shut behind you. You stared at your feet for a moment, wondering if you should turn back, but thought it would be idiotic to return to him after leaving so early in the morning.

You stalked off, swearing underneath your breath and hoping that maybe you leaving wouldn't force House to believe that you don't have feelings for him. However, you had told him that you would take that night even if it turned into nothing else. You had willingly given yourself to him, willingly gave your body to him to use at his own disposal. How could you expect more? Even if he knew you had feelings for him, maybe it wouldn't change anything. He probably didn't have feelings for you, you reasoned. You were just his comfort that night, not his usual Vicodin or a bottle of whiskey.

* * *

House's mind drifted between you and Stacy over his entire vacation period. He shouldn't have thought back to neither, he admitted, but he had to. He obsessed over every detail. Why did you leave without a word? What had you wanted? Were you only a one-night stand for him? If not, then what did you want? A relationship? Was he ready to move on from Stacy? Was he ready for a relationship?

He'd destroy you, he knew, no matter what. If it was just this one night, he'd destroy you another way. He always found a way to destroy what was precious to him. He would envelop you in his misery; he would drag you down to the deepest, fieriest depths of hell with him. He'd steal all of your happiness and turn it into something covered in soot and as cold as ice. Just like he had with Stacy. He had played her guilt until he drove her away. He would find a way to toy with your emotions too, to ruin you completely, until you would tell him to go to Hell and would eventually leave him without looking back.

It was at that moment that he had decided to never, absolutely never, allow himself to show his feelings to you. He would never bed you again. He would never hold you again. He would never kiss you again. Not that it would make an overly large difference, anyway. He was already miserable. What was even more misery? He laughed to himself painfully, "Maybe I should just fire you, (Name)."

Needless to say, he did not contact you over his break. Neither did he receive neither a call nor a text from you. But why should he care, anyway? He didn't love you, not at all. All he wanted to do, in his vile and twisted mind, was to cause you pain. Pain was all he knew. He had to make sure that everyone he loved had to know only pain as well. So, he couldn't call. If you had feelings for him, his lack of contact would only crush you. But he wouldn't admit to himself that every second that passed without hearing your voice made him only feel pain even more. And not even then could the Vicodin take his pain away.

* * *

Returning to work had been a challenge for the both of you, though neither would admit it to the other. You refused to look House in the eyes, and House refused to stop assigning you daunting tasks that made you want to tear your own hair out. Even Foreman began to take pity on you—the stone-cold, seemingly emotionless man began to pity you! Of all things! It had started with House making you clean up his desk, which had been made much more of a mess than it had been for ever since you remembered. Then he made you run around, back and forth between the hospital and a dozen coffee shops, to find the perfect mocha. Not that he drank any of them anyway, but rather sniffed them and then tossed them in the trash, saying things like, "Hmm, nice… try, but not good enough, to the next café!"

However, you had found yourself staring at House, waiting for him to give you your next task. You forced yourself to not let your thoughts wander to how attractive he looked with that rugged sort of handsomeness that made you grow weak in the knees. But instead, he turned around and ignored you, much to your chagrin. With no task at hand, you opted to go to the clinic, sighing to yourself. Oh, just, why did he have to be so infuriating?

* * *

Wilson watched as his door creaked open slowly, a black cane appearing in the doorway. He quickly jumped underneath his desk, hoping that maybe House would give up whatever he was planning to do to him and go on with whatever case he was assigned. House did have a case, right?

He heard footsteps draw nearer to him, and with every footstep Wilson felt anxiety pool up within him. He was not prepared to deal with House at this moment, but then again, when was he ever prepared for House? House sat in Wilson's chair and kicked off his shoes. Sighing contentedly, he leaned back and thrusted his feet directly into Wilson's face.

"I see why Wilson almost never leaves his office. This chair is so comfortable." And then it came. The monster of all monsters. Ripping through the air, and its roar, oh, Wilson could never un-hear it!

He ceded, running out of the desk, covering his nose and breathing heavily through his mouth. "What the hell is wrong with you, House?" he screamed, his voice comically nasally.

House smirked proudly, holding a whoopee-cushion in his hand with the utmost glee. "Be grateful that I didn't unbutton my pants and start—"

"Yes, yes, I understand. Thank you oh merciful one, I am deeply indebted to you for this act of kindness." Wilson clasped his hands together and bowed, both his words and his gesture sarcastic.

"Wilson, I have done a very bad thing," House began.

"Oh no. NO! You're going to get out of my office and give me time to work. You're not going to tell me about how you almost got fired today because of something or another. Besides, don't you have a case?" Wilson was ready to push House out of his chair, but then House would play the cripple card. Which, eventually, would cause Wilson to just let House say whatever he wanted to say, no doubt tricking him to do something he would regret later on.

"Oh, fine then. I'll just leave and later you'll regret how you didn't keep me from making a huge mistake." House began to walk out of Wilson's office, counting the seconds it took for Wilson to cave.

"Alright, okay! Just—just listen to what I have to say this time if you're going to brag about your latest screw-up to me." Though he said this, Wilson knew it was fruitless.

"I slept with (Name)." It was a single sentence, four words, but it held so much wait to it.

Wilson took one look at House and scoffed. House stared at his only true friend, his best friend, and felt offended for a moment before he reminded himself that he himself was full of bullshit, and of course Wilson wouldn't believe him. Well, not initially at least. House had a way to make Wilson believe, in the end, that everything was possible.

"Have you started to hallucinate? How much Vicodin have you been taking exactly?" Wilson laughed wistfully, biting his tongue as he waited for House's answers. Despite the constant pranks and joking, he truly worried and cared deeply for House. House was like an annoying little brother who annoyed him to the point where he could kill him, but at the same time couldn't live without.

House looked to the man sitting in front of him, his eyes shining in the sunlight that peaked through the windows in Wilson's office. "I shouldn't have even come then, if you wouldn't believe me. Well, I guess you're right. Too much Vicodin. I'll just stop taking it then. Oh wait, but…" House popped the top of bottle of Vicodin off, the bottle opening with a distinct "pop". He took several into his hand and through them into his mouth one by one, catching each one expertly as if he had spent hours practicing throwing them into his mouth.

Wilson sighed deeply; feeling the pain House was feeling in his heart, no matter how much House denied that he could feel anything other than pain in his leg. Three pills, Wilson had counted. House usually took two. The extra one had to be for a reason. It had to be because of (Name). "You regret it then," Wilson began, gesticulating with his hands awkwardly as if they could say the words his mouth couldn't form, "sleeping with (Name), that is."

"Not regret, per say. She was enough of an idiot to throw herself at me…" House said plainly, defensive about what actually had occurred that night.

Wilson raised his eyebrow doubtfully at House, "Whatever happened, House—and, no, I don't want to know—decide whether or not you want to be with her. It's none of my business what you do with your love life."

House nodded; already sick of how sympathetic Wilson was trying to be. He had has heart on his sleeve and that characteristic almost disgusted House. Almost. He began to walk out of the door, relying on his cane more heavily than usual.

"If you ask me, she would be good for you."

The door clicked shut behind House as he pretended to not have heard Wilson's words. It wasn't whether or not House wanted to be with (Name), or even if he needed to be with her. It was that he shouldn't. He couldn't. He would ruin a perfect flower, watch it wilt and its petals fall off slowly until it would become a shriveled up remnant of what it once was.

* * *

Wilson sat at a table in the café, waiting for you to show up for lunch. When he saw you enter, he nearly ran to you. Ever since House had told him that he had slept with you, he couldn't get it off of his mind. He knew that House could hurt you, yes, but he also knew that you could possibly be one of the best things that have ever happened to Gregory House in his entire, miserably life.

He saw as you rustled for cash in your pants pocket, but came up with only a crumbled dollar sitting in your hand pitifully. This gave him an excuse to talk to you and he whooped and cheered inwardly at his good luck. "Don't worry, I can pay for you," he offered, his voice nicer than usual.

"Thank you, but I think I'll just go without lunch…" you smiled gratefully, "I'm not sure if I could even eat it anyway," you mumbled underneath your breath.

But, Wilson had caught your words and knew that your mind was still on House. It must have been difficult for you, working so closely with House on a daily basis and to have this happen to you… He couldn't imagine. "No, I insist. Anything you want is on me."

You ordered a Reuben sans pickles, which Wilson paid for in addition to his ham and cheese sandwich with a side of chips. He struggled to not comment when you had ordered your sandwich, knowing that it was House's favorite.

He followed you to the table you chose in the farthest corner away from everyone. You gave him the cold shoulder, not wishing to speak with anyone. Slowly your heart was breaking because of House. He hadn't yet broken down to tell you that he wanted you, and you couldn't wait any longer.

"How have you been?" Wilson asked, breaking the silence between you two.

"Hasn't it been obvious?" you nearly spat at him, your words like venom. "I'm not in the mood to talk."

"I did notice, and I'm not happy about it. I understand that you don't want to talk, but maybe you should just vent a little. It would help talk the pressure off." Wilson offered his ears, but he knew you would not accept them.

You continued to quietly munch on your sandwich, the normally delightful taste turning bitter on your lips. Had you been alone at home, you would have let tears slide down your face.

"House didn't look too happy either today," Wilson opted to say, hoping that he would glean a response from you.

You nearly choked on your sandwich at the mention of his name. "He's a miserable son of a bitch. Your point is?"

"I don't know, I thought that you two were getting along better, but I guess you're not anymore." Wilson nervously bit at his sandwich, worrying that he was being too forward.

"We never really were, but I suppose it's taken a turn for the worse. I've considered quitting." You crossed your hands over your abdomen, trying to hold yourself together.

That had been the moment where Wilson could no longer hold the information he knew in. And so, the words tumbled ungracefully out of his mouth. "House came to me and told me what happened. And, um, he likes you. Hell, maybe he's even falling in love with you. But—oh God—don't let him being an asshole make you think that he doesn't want to be with you. Because he does. He really does."

Your mouth was agape, your mind working dizzyingly to process his words. You tried to form the words to speak, but instead your feet moved and you stood from the table. You stared at him bewilderingly still, and muttered a quick "Thank you," before running off, leaving Wilson wondering whether he should be happy for you or worried.

You ran to the elevator, counting every step you took. You had to just get through today, you told yourself, and then you would give House your letter of resignation. Even if he wanted to be with you, he hadn't told you yet, and because he hadn't he would never tell you. You were sure of that fact. So sure, that as you waited for the elevator reach the floor diagnostics was on, you planned how you would write your letter of resignation.

You would have held yourself together, if everything had gone ideally. It was a matter of seconds, really, that had made an enormous difference that would change everything. It was his blue eyes staring at you, staring into your soul in a way that made your heart swoop. It was the lines on his face moving in response to the site of you. It was the way his lips looked at that moment, and despite the fact that you wanted to run away from them, you yearned to feel their softness against your own. It was the fact that House was an enigma—the enigma. Oh, how you wanted him to be your enigma. But as he stood there in front of the elevator, unmoving, waiting for you to say something, to do something, you only stood there.

"Dr. (Name)," he addressed you roughly, and you wiped all the fantasies out of your mind.

"Sorry," you whimpered out, tears falling from your face as you ran to the nearest bathroom. You ran in, your back falling hard against the tile wall. You didn't hold back the twisted sobs that spilled out of your mouth. There was no reason to—no one was in the bathroom.

The door swung open, banging as it hit the doorstop. You had forgotten to lock the family bathroom behind you. The lock of the door clicked shut and a moment of terrifying silence followed. You breathed heavily, unwilling to open your eyes that stung from your salty tears. The familiar sound of House's cane resounded through the small room, but you hoped that it had been just a hallucination, that you were out somewhere, having a psychotic break because of this man. Anything would be better than to confront him. You didn't want this now, now that you had decided to quit.

"Go on, fire me," you whimpered, "It'll be better for the both of us."

"You're right. We won't have to do those stupid love contracts for human resources then." His mouth crashed against yours, passion exploding through your body.

You relaxed into him immediately, moaning out. Your tongues danced a dangerous dance, but consequences didn't matter to either of you in that moment. The forces between you, no matter how much you both tried to deny them, were to powerful. As your mouths intertwined, you felt as if you were a part of him and he a part of you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, his cane falling from his hand and clattering against the tiled floor. Pulling you closer to him and then slamming your back against the wall, he deepened the kiss further. "You're better than Vicodin," he thought as he began to kiss your neck, tasting your sweet skin against his lips.

"Tell me this isn't a dream."

"No, it's a nightmare. But it's our nightmare," he spoke, "So get ready, this is going to be some terrifying shit."

And you laughed both in happiness and in terror, because as much as you wanted 'this', you had no idea what 'this' would do to the either of you. Nevertheless, you ran headfirst into it, knowing that it could destroy the both of you.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! School has been a bitch. I'll update whenever I can. Thanks to my readers. You guys are awesome! Much love and Vicodin for all of you.


	11. Chapter 11

xi

The main challenge for House, now the he was with you, was trying to gauge whether or not he agreed with your medical opinions because he was dating you. When he disagreed with you, you could not help but feel hurt. When he agreed with you, you second-guessed yourself. It was no easier for him, because the way he saw it, no matter what he said you would be unhappy with his medical opinion. Not that he cared too much about how hurt you were in the hospital; he couldn't just agree with you to make you happy at the risk of the patient's life. So, in the end when he saw that hurt look in your eyes when he told you that your idea was stupid, he didn't regret. He wouldn't chase after you if you ran out of the room, huffing and filled with anger. You weren't at the top of his agenda when he was working in the hospital, and he thought it was better that you knew that now than figured that fact out later.

When you two were in private, far away from Princeton Plainsboro, in a dimly lit room with soft jazz weeping in the background, you became the only thing in the world that he found important. When there was no case, nothing to bother him, you were his all. There wasn't the pain in his leg or the pain of the depression that had consumed him for a decade, there was only you and your naked body writhing underneath him as he rocked into you slowly, rocked into you quickly, rocked into you in ways that made you scream and cry and mewl and moan for him. You were his all, in the moments of his day that were seemingly mundane. He would eat his breakfast, his lunch, his dinner and if he closed his eyes, he swore he could taste your sweet cum with every bite. When he locked himself in his office, drawing the blinds and turning off the lights just to escape the madness of the hospital for a moment, he swore he could feel you dancing in the air. When he listened to music, he could hear your voice, soft like a whisper, teasing and tickling his ears. You were his all. Not that he could ever let you know—not when you were working.

* * *

"You know (name)," Wilson sighed. He looked into your hurt eyes that were brimmed with the tears you were fighting, and knew that this relationship or sexcapade or whatever the hell it was, was getting to you. "I know he can be an ass, but whatever he says in this hospital to you is just so that he won't make a mistake. I think, that he thinks, that if he makes a mistake because of what he has with you, he will never let himself forget it. And I think, that if that happens, he thinks he will hurt you in ways that you never knew that you could be hurt. He doesn't want to hurt you." Wilson let out a deep breath, watching your reaction cautiously. You were sensitive, almost too sensitive, but at the same time he knew you were strong and stubborn. He didn't know which side you would bring to battle today.

"House is an ass," you said, smirking. "But he's the ass I chose to be with. I don't think he should be afraid of hurting me though." You looked at your feet, letting your head hang a bit. "Being afraid of shit like that doesn't end well for either party."

You could hear Cameron running from the other end of the hall. It was the perkiness of her step, that hope that emanated from her, that made you know who it was. "The patient in room 237 isn't reacting well the diazepam."

"Well did it stop the seizures?"

"Yeah, but he's broken out in bleeding blisters. His skin looks like it's been burned, badly. We've treated him with anti-histamines, but they aren't working. An allergic reaction has been ruled out, and even House isn't quite sure what he's dealing with. Maybe you could come down and check the patient out?"

You waved a quick good-bye to Wilson before running with Cameron to room 237. The truth was, the moment you saw the patient lying there in his bed, bleeding and blistered; you could have sworn that he was a victim of some brutal fire. You wanted to vomit on the floor, your stomach doing backflips. You wanted to cry for the pain the patient must have been in. But, in medical school you had been trained to not react. It would make the patient feel safer, less stressed. You though it made the patient feel alienated and uncared-for. "Give me the bloodwork." You demanded gruffly.

"It's not back yet."

You looked at Cameron with shock on your face and you pulled her out of the room immediately. "So you drag me down here, telling me to look at this patient, without bloodwork or anything for me too look at other than this guy's oven-baked skin, and expect me to make some miracle diagnosis?"

"No, it's just I thought maybe you could point us into some direction. And you shouldn't take that tone with me. You've been around House too long."

You ignored her last statement, trying to hide how peeved you had become as a result of her insinuation. "Look, it could be a thousand things. I can't point you into a direction unless I see his blood-work. You can screw the patient's history right now because what he has told you about his life clearly isn't even a tenth of what it really is. I look at him and see someone who's been in contact with radioactive substances. I look at him and I see him being poisoned or God knows what. Get the bloodwork back, and if that isn't conclusive, then we'll start speculating and guessing." You storm off before you can listen to her reply.

* * *

House was writing on the board in his messy handwriting, listing the symptoms, listing the possible illness beneath those symptoms. It was like this every day, and while it had been exhilarating to you once, now your mind was too preoccupied by the man writing those things on that board. You shook your leg impatiently at the table as you listened to the other three discuss the patient, who was on a path to death that you thought was inevitable at this point.

You finally sighed, looking down at your chest. House was ignoring you, so you had just given up providing suggestions. In any case, it was best not to disturb his thinking process. Cameron, Foreman and Chase were here just to entertain him, to give him a little something extra while he was often times the true mastermind behind these miracle diagnoses. You looked up at him, infuriated. At the same time, you fell flush when he looked at you, his clear blue eyes staring into your own. And then it hit you, as the heat passed over you, and you jumped out of your seat in excitement. "Radiation poisoning!"

"But the toxicology report—" Foreman began, shoving the file toward your direction.

"Was inconclusive, yes, I know. But, the fact of the matter is that the patient has no recollection of the past seventy two hours of his life, cannot tell us if he had planned on going anywhere, and has consistently lied to us about his life and work conditions. Now, I'm saying we treat him for radiation poisoning, and wait it out. I think—"

"And if it isn't radiation poisoning?" House asked, "The patient could die. He doesn't have time left. We have to be absolutely sure."

"I am absolutely sure. His symptoms and the rate of decline he has experienced are consistent with radiation poisoning. His memory loss could be associated with a number of things, though I believe that he is deliberately keeping secrets from us for whatever reason. I think if we act now, we can save this man."

Cameron looked at me, slightly stunned by my willingness to confront House so brazenly. "I think… I think (name) is right. If we start now, we have the best shot to reverse some of the damage quickly. It's been less than five days. Statistically, he still has a good shot at making it out of this alive."

Chase, following Cameron agreed. Foreman, begrudgingly, agreed with the rest of the group, though you knew he most likely was thinking the same thing as you but had idiotically refused to say it earlier.

"Well, I guess it's time to fix Hiroshima," House said as he limped out of the room, not looking back to you. It hurt, like a tiny needle poked into your heart over and over, until there were so many holes in it that it was utterly painful to bear your heart beating anymore.

The patient had been taken shortly after treatment had begun by the CDC. He was transported to a government facility that would oversee his medical treatment. Other than that, we did not know much else other than the fact that none of us had been exposed to anything dangerous.

House, on the other hand, sat at his desk across from you, obsessing over the patient. "Why take four days to come and take this patient?" He tossed his red and blue tennis ball at the wall, catching it after it bounced back. "Is it because we got it right?"

"Not all mysteries can be solved, House. You need to let this one go. They've got him under control now." You looked at him with pity in your eyes. It pained you to see him so wound up like this, so obsessed over a medical mystery that was out of his control. He popped a Vicodin in his mouth, averting your gaze. You hated his addiction, and wished that you could help him, but didn't know how.

"I think you should go home, (Name)."

"I don't want to leave until I know you're going to be alright."

"When were any of us alright?" He laughed bitterly. "I mean, you're so pitiful that you have to fuck a cripple. I mean, how must it feel to be you? Were you really that desperate?"

Holding back tears, you stood from your chair, unable to breath. "Fuck you, House. Just fuck you." You left the room, your arms shaking as you let out a sob with the sound of the door clicking behind you. You walked to the elevator, pressing the button, your vision blurred from the tears falling from your eyes.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you looked up, to see Cuddy with a concern splayed over her face looking at you. There wasn't much you could do at this point, and you entered the elevator, pressing the close button and prayed that the doors would close before anyone else would come on.

She took you into her arms, her heart breaking at the sight of you. And she had known that House had hurt you, and she wished that she could take that pain away. You let yourself linger in the hug, crying into her arms until the elevator reached the main floor.

She watched you walk away, thinking that in another universe, she could have been there to take those tears away, to kiss them away with her own lips and that you would let her love you the way she knew she could. She watched you walk away brokenly, thinking that House didn't deserve you.

You woke up to the sound of knocking at your door. It was nine a.m. You hadn't planned to go into work that day, and you knew House didn't expect that you would show up—not after last night. You turned onto your side and covered you head with the blanket, attempting to ignore the knocking. But, after several minutes, you huffed as you got out of bed and opened the door.

"I wasn't sure how long I could keep up knocking," Wilson said, a sympathetic look on his face.

"Why are you here, huh?" you asked, rubbing the back of your head. "You've got a job at the hospital."

"I've taken the day off. I was thinking, maybe you needed a friend." He stepped inside, bringing a bag with him. "I brought a couple of movies, some snacks. Maybe we could relax, have some fun."

"No talking about House," you said, a serious tone saturated in your voice.

"Who's House?" Wilson asked jokingly, before taking Spaceballs out of the paper bag and popping it into your DVR. "Now sit down on this comfy couch over here, and relax on your day off. This should be a fun day!"

His niceness was almost cloying, but you accepted his act of kindness and sat down next to him. At least, he had chosen a movie that you liked. "It'll be more fun once you shut up," you grumbled, taking the pillow next to you and hugging it.

 _No wonder she and House are together,_ he thought, turning up the volume a bit as the movie started.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter, I know. Sorry for the long wait. I'm just trying to get back into this whole fanfic writing thing. Next chapter will be up in a couple of weeks, hopefully.


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